This is the child. He has not yet put out leaves.His bare skin tastes the air; his naked eyesknow nothing but strange shapes. Nothing is named;nothing is ago, nothing not yet. Death is that which dies,and grief has yet no meaning and no size.

Where the wild harebell grows to a blue caveand the climbing ant is a monster of green lightthe child clings to his grassblade. The mountain range lies like a pillow for his head at night,the moon swings from his ceiling. He is a wavethat timeless moves through time, imperishably bright.